


My hand stitched in yours

by yourfriendlyneighbourhoodme



Category: Victoria (TV)
Genre: Fix-It, M/M, episode eight never happened, i try and make things better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-18 09:10:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12385170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yourfriendlyneighbourhoodme/pseuds/yourfriendlyneighbourhoodme
Summary: Alfred and Drummond have their differences, but they'll always find their way back together. After all, it's where they belong.





	My hand stitched in yours

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Welcome to my attempt to make things better for dear Drumfred, because they deserved so much better. Thank you for reading, and I hope you enjoy it! It's nothing too graphic, but just to be on the safe side, TW for mentions of shooting.

Alfred sits nervously in the restaurant, kicking his feet under the table and staring around the large room. He’s early to meet Drummond, and has been getting more anxious every minute that the brunet hasn’t turned up. Logically, he sees no reason why Drummond would stand him up, but there’s still that eternal paranoia that their whole relationship is all a trick, all in his head, and that Drummond has worked out that he doesn’t love Alfred and that he’s rejecting him. Alfred finds it difficult to combat, given that this is situation he never thought he’d find himself in, never in his wildest dreams.

However, he’s finding that the paranoia is well fought by the memory of that kiss, the recollection that curls itself contentedly around Alfred’s heart at every moment, helping him fight back his fears whenever the Prime Minister’s Secretary leaves the palace after a meeting, and helps him to sleep when he’s lying wide awake. 

Seeing Drummond is the other thing that helps. After around a year of their smirk-flirting, they’ve gotten really good at ‘accidentally’ bumping into each other in corridors, especially since Scotland and their newfound understanding, now that there’s no need to pretend to one another that Drummond just happened to walk past the balcony where he knew he’d find Alfred. They manage around ten minutes of stolen conversation each couple of days, if they’re lucky, either in meetings with the Queen and Peel, or just in corridors when Alfred hears on the grapevine that Peel and Drummond have turned up to see the Queen and just takes to wandering around until he finds what he’s looking for.

And he usually always does, both of them lighting up upon seeing the other at the opposite end of the corridor, hastening towards each other and chattering as if they’re nothing more than close knit friends. The Prime Minister sometimes left them to it, sometimes joined in their conversation, or from time to time scolded his secretary for dawdling if he was in a more tetchy mood that day. When the latter happened, Drummond would sometimes throw Alfred a wink before following his boss, a wink that Alfred would replay over and over in his head until they next saw one another. 

Still, they hadn’t truly been alone since Scotland. After sneaking out of Drummond’s room in the early hours of their last morning in the beautiful Lowlands, Alfred had been craving even the smallest of kisses, but even if they managed to steal a rare moment on their balcony they’d managed nothing more than a quick brush of their fingers together. The loss of Drummond’s affections like that was driving him insane, and he’d like to think that it’s doing to the same to his love (because then at least if they were suffering at least they were suffering together). 

The paranoia crept back in at moments like this where Alfred was slightly panicked, and when there were no meetings between the Queen and the Prime Minister for a few days. That’s when the panic began to creep in and tell him that it was all a lie, that he’d dreamt up those kisses or worse, that Drummond had found him repulsive and at any minute would disclose what had occurred between them to the highest selling bidder. This was unlikely, as if it got out then the information could ruin Drummond’s political career as well as Alfred’s, but it was a fear that Alfred had lived with his whole life and it wasn’t about to go away anytime soon. 

Then, he hears footsteps behind him and a soft hand on his shoulder, and Drummond apologising for his tardiness, and the warmth of relief floods over him as though he’s suddenly been bathed in sunlight. Alfred is still, after all this time, surprised at the way his heart thumps at merely seeing him, but he has gotten used to the way his smile makes the blond a little dizzy, because, let’s be real, Edward Drummond had the most beautiful smile of any person to ever walk this earth. Alfred would be willing to swear it on his life. 

Drummond’s excuse concerns the Corn Laws, and Alfred is reminded of the earache he’s currently been getting from his father, who is furious with Peel for his proposal. Alfred had stayed silent in his support of the Prime Minister’s repeal, thinking it unwise to start a debate, but his boredom of the subject must show on his face because Drummond smiles at him and insists that they talk about something else. 

He smiles again, smiling the most that Alfred has ever seen him smile, and Alfred falls even deeper in love with him, if that was possible (every time he sees him he thinks he loves him more than anyone could love anything. Then he loves him a little bit more, again and again and again). 

He orders oysters and champagne, regardless of the cost, and grins back at the man sitting across the table from him, his eyes drinking in the sight of his Drummond after weeks of wanting. His face is kind and warm in the dim candlelight of the room, and even though Alfred knew he missed the taller man, the extent to which he needed him hadn’t quite hit him until now. 

Alfred doesn’t care if he’s being overdramatic. You’re allowed to be when you’re in love. 

Despite his happiness to see him, when Drummond says that he has something to tell him, Alfred is immediately defensive, and so is Drummond, although Alfred wishes they weren’t, because he’s not sure he could stand if their relationship began to strain any further than the tenterhooks it’s currently place under. But he can’t help himself, at the mere mention of the existence of the fiancée, Florence, he’s ready to cry. It’s not her fault, of course, being engaged to the love of Alfred’s life, but he still resents her for it, and her luck to be able to be with the most amazing man in the world. Jealously reels inside him like a great serpent, instantly souring his mood, but he does his best to stay calm, stay kind, stay collected. He owes it to Drummond, who is equally upset about the scenario. 

“You’ve set a date, haven’t you?” he asks the question with more confidence than he expects, a vague cheeriness to his voice that he suspects is for the benefit of the other diners who might happen to overhear their conversation. After all, when your friend is getting married, you’re meant to be pleased for him, not angry because he’s not marrying you. Alfred knows that much about straight people at least. 

Drummond winces at his words, and shakes his head, raising both hope and anger in Alfred, both of which he tries desperately to quell. Then the Secretary replies that he’s instead going to call off the wedding instead, a thought that makes Alfred’s head spin, and from there the conversation quickly goes sour, both of them too upset to let any logic into their brains. Their anger at the world turns into anger at each other. 

Alfred tries to reign in his confusion and upset, insisting to the contrary because he can’t let Drummond do this, not for him. Surely they both know that something between them cannot last? It’s a fact that Alfred has realised over the course of this dinner, a fact which he’s been ignoring even when it was staring him in the face. Drummond is too great to let an illegal love stand in his way, no matter how much it hurt Alfred to admit it. 

Beautiful, selfless Drummond gets more and more distressed with every word Alfred says, and although he tries to stop himself speaking, they continue sniping back and forth at one another, becoming more venomous and resentful with every second as the tension grows. The pressures of their relationship being as it is is affecting both their outlooks, their fear controlling them and Alfred watching helpless as the best thing that’s ever happened to him spiral away and out of his grasp. 

There’s barely any thought by either of them to how their conversation might appear to outsiders, a thing which is usually at the forefront of their minds as they trained themselves to be careful from a young age, never dreaming that something so wonderful might happen to them. 

Something snaps. 

And then Drummond gets up and Alfred watches the light of his life walk away. 

[][][]

Back at the palace over the next few days, Alfred throws himself into his duties in a desperate attempt to rid Drummond’s heartbroken face from his mind. He discusses matters with the Queen, practices the piano with Ernest and reads poems on benches in the gardens. He plays games with Prince Bertie and chats with Wilhelmina. 

Not a single one eases his own heartbreak. 

The wound is deep in his chest, a kind of ache that never goes away, with him from the moment he wakes up in the morning to the second his head hits the pillow at night. Drummond even haunts his dreams, the other side of the bed feeling colder than usual. 

If Alfred didn’t know any better, he’d say he was going mad cooped up in the castle, too afraid to venture out lest he bump into Drummond and kiss him in the middle of a crowded street. 

He’s being particularly mopey one morning, wandering the corridors in the vague hope that the Private Secretary will appear out of thin air with two Italian passports and money to leave this godforsaken city, when the Prince appears, looking faintly surprised to see him there. 

“Lord Alfred!” he cries, striding towards him as Alfred’s stomach sinks into his boots. 

“Yes?” he replies uncertainly, looking worriedly at the Prince, who has that look on his face that means he’s got a plan that Alfred might not like. 

“Will you come for a ride with me?” the Prince asks, and Alfred finds himself shrugging. 

Why not?

[][][]

Alfred finds a very good reason why not half an hour later, when of all the people in London, of all the people in the park, Albert decides to talk to the Prime Minister, who of course, doesn’t go anywhere without his handsome Private Secretary! Because, you know, the universe hates Alfred and it wants him to be miserable, and the way to make Alfred most miserable is to have Edward Drummond mad at him, so Alfred sits trying not to cry looking at Drummond who is glaring resolutely at him. 

Every time Alfred looks up, Drummond is looking at him. Well, not just looking. Scowling at him as though he’s every thing wrong with the world. If Alfred wasn’t so upset he’d let himself think about that fact that the brunet looks absolutely adorable when he’s angry. 

Alfred asks the cosmos what he did to deserve this particular brand of cruelty, but it doesn’t reply, which is rude of it, so he keeps sneaking glances at a sulking Drummond until Peel and the Prince finish their conversation, which appears to go on for hours from Alfred’s point of view. When Peel and Drummond finally say their goodbyes, he says nothing to Drummond and Drummond says nothing to him, both missing the confused looks exchanged by their companions and merely riding on in a passive-aggressive not-looking-at-you-mope-off. 

Alfred likes to think that he won, using his puppy dog eyes to full effect and meanly enjoying the way that Drummond winces out of the corner of his eyes. He’s not vindictive, honest, just really really bitter and hearbroken. 

But all he can think about is Drummond. The way he always grins at Alfred as though they’re sharing an inside joke and the sound of his laughter echoing through empty gardens on the rare occasions before Scotland when they’d braved walking together. He remembers splashing Drummond in a cold, crisp French pond, and soft lips in a sunset, and then has to move to ride behind Albert so he can try and discreetly wipe away the tears that spill down his cheeks much too easily, making him realise he’s been holding them in for days. 

Weeks. Months? However long it is that he’s been helplessly in love with most beautiful boy in the world. 

Fuck the universe and it’s plan to spite him. Alfred decides resolutely that he has to be with Edward Drummond for as long as he can, even if that time is only mere minutes compared to what other lovers get to share. The risk is worth it. The potential heartbreak is worth it. Because seconds spent with Drummond are the best seconds of Alfred’s life.

[][][]

His heart decides that he’s got to fix it as soon as possible, and before he knows it he’s sitting down to write, putting pen to paper and splurging his whirling thoughts out. It takes several attempts to get the note to Drummond just so, mixing raw emotion and friendly comments gently so that the recipient will understand his regrets and heartache, but so that if it was intercepted they won’t get thrown in jail (because, you know, sadly he has to consider these things. He’d caught Harriet and Ernest kissing in a sitting room yesterday and had had to leave rapidly as he burst into tears thinking about what it would have been like to be able to kiss Drummond whenever he wanted).

Alfred sends the letter before he can stop himself, unable to live without his Drummond and not daring to think of what he’ll do if he’s left alone at dinner tonight. 

[][][]

Alfred, alone at dinner, can barely conceal his panic. His hands haven’t stopped shaking for a good twenty minutes and although he should leave, everyone else is looking at him a little weirdly, because he’s been sitting there alone for over half an hour, but he can’t bring himself to stand up because then it’s over. If he stands up, if he leaves his place here at their table, he admits to himself that Drummond isn’t coming, that Drummond doesn’t love him as much as Alfred loves him and that he’s going to have to spent the rest of his days parted from the man who made him feel like the summer sun. The idea is too horrible for him to even think about entertaining. Because Drummond is going to come. 

He has to. 

The chatter filling the room around him is almost suffocating to him where he sits in his small bubble of silence, with the laughter pressing in around him and making him wipe his sweaty palms nervously on his trousers, looking around him just in case Drummond appears suddenly bursting through the door of the restaurant, delayed for some reason out his control and an apologetic smile upon his face. 

But still Drummond doesn’t come. 

Alfred takes a deep breath and stands reluctantly when he looks at the clock and sees that he’s been there for an hour, at the same moment that two aged politicians sit down the table besides him, both obviously shaken as they order large brandies. He pauses, wondering if perhaps the bill was delayed and that’s why Drummond isn’t here. Then he tries to squash the hope, because it’s dangerous and might just ruin him one of these days, if Drummond breaking his heart doesn’t destroy him first. 

“What is it, gentlemen?” he asks them gently. “Did the Corn Law pass?” 

One of the men glances at him and sighs deeply, his companion simply staring into space. 

“It passed,” he informs him, then grimaces. “A shooter tried to kill the Prime Minister. Hit his secretary instead.” 

And just like that, taken by only a short phrase, the air is completely gone from Alfred’s lungs and he’s clutching at the table for support, knuckles white. The two men don’t bat any eyelid, both too unsettled themselves to notice the way that the Queen’s Chief Equerry is gasping for breath as though someone just tried to drown him. 

“Is he…?” Alfred can’t form the word on his lips, too afraid to even entertain the notion. No. NO. Drummond couldn’t be…? It was too awful to even think of it. 

“No,” the man shakes his head, and some form of relief fills Alfred’s head, which is still spinning slightly, “but it’s not certain he’ll survive,”

As though he suddenly notices Alfred properly, noting his age and attire, he gives him a worried glance and puts a gentle hand on his arm. “Is he a friend of yours?” 

Alfred just about manages to nod, a strained action which he’s sure looks very unnatural, and the man sighs sympathetically. “He’s at St Barts,” he says, then holds out a hand when Alfred reaches into his wallet for money for the bill, “I’ll get it,” he tells him, and Alfred sends him the best smile he can, although it feels wrong to even think about such an action at a time like this. 

“Thank you, sir,” he says, before turning on his heel and sprinting out of the restaurant as fast as he can, regardless of the diners who stop to stare at him, making amused faces at their friends at the sight of the deathly pale young man leaving the room at such a pace. 

[][][]

Peel admits that the surgery on Drummond takes less time than he thought, and within twenty minutes of arriving at the hospital, his secretary is out of the operating room and in a private room, sitting up in bed and staring deliriously at the ceiling, high on all kinds of fancy medication which Peel doesn’t pretend to understand. 

The doctor informs the Prime Minister that Drummond isn’t out of the woods yet, that although they managed to get him to the hospital quickly and then get the bullet out, there’s still a risk that he won’t make it, but Peel barely registers it, unable to believe that something as minor as a single bullet could take down Edward Drummond, who has been a rock in his life for a good year, especially the past few weeks. He’d begun to regard the young man with an almost paternal instinct, and was furious with himself that he hadn’t seen the risk. 

He refuses to think about what he’ll do if Drummond doesn’t survive this. 

He sends urgent letters to Drummond’s mother and fiancée, informing them in the briefest terms possible of what’s happened and requesting their presence as soon as they can get to the hospital, but there’s a nagging doubt in his mind that he’s forgotten someone. This feeling doesn’t go away when the two women turn up, rushing to the side of their beloved. Peel frowns when Drummond continues to look anxiously around the room as though he’s expecting someone else to come, and Peel watches the scene from the other side of the room, trying to bring some sort of order into his thoughts. 

The past hour had passed in such quick fragments, it’s as if he can’t quite remember how he got here, as though he was just watching Drummond taking a bullet from above, as though the memories aren’t his but in fact were given to himself by someone else. 

But every time he opens his eyes, Drummond is still lying there, although he’s pleased to note that with every glance a little more colour returns to his cheeks. 

At some point the doctor comes and takes out the two women to discuss Drummond’s condition with them, and Peel moves closer to his secretary’s bed, having so much to say. But when he sits down, all the words vanish, and he just looks at Drummond, who still looks lost. 

A nurse comes in some five minutes or so later, and bows to him. 

“Prime Minister,” she says cheerily, “there’s someone called Alfred Paget yelling in the lobby about needing to see Mr Drummond. Blond hair, fancily dressed?” 

Peel looks at the nurse and then back at Drummond, who sits up slightly at the name, somehow still vaguely aware of his surroundings, much to Peel’s surprise. 

“Yes,” Peel says, “Bring him up as soon as possible,”

“Of course, sir,” she replies as she leaves again, and Peel turns back to the bed to see Drummond straining his neck to look at the door, almost desperately, and he smacks himself for not seeing it before. There’s a glazed look in Drummond’s eyes due to the large amounts of pain medication that he’s on, but there’s a sudden hopefulness that wasn’t there before. 

Peel sighs. 

What Drummond was missing was Alfred. 

Said man bursts in through the doors some thirty seconds later, and Peel watches him change in seconds from on the edge of screaming to a somewhat calmer state but still frantic state upon seeing Drummond alive and sitting up. 

“Drummond,” he mutters, moving towards the bed and completely ignoring Peel, but Peel just watches. He watches as Alfred takes one of Drummond’s hands slowly, running his fingers slowly over the palm, and as Drummond shifts towards him looking finally calm, finally centred and in control. The way they look at each other is desperate, as though they’re trying to explain the meaning of the universe to the other just through a look. 

How could he not have seen it before? He’s been a blind old fool. 

This is all that Peel thinks about as Alfred sits down slowly in the chair besides Drummond and just gazes at him, silent tears falling down his pale cheeks. 

Alfred doesn’t move when Peel gets up, not when the doctor comes back in, although he does remove his hand from Drummond’s when Florence appears in the doorway. 

Peel introduces Alfred to Florence and Drummond’s mother with no interaction with Alfred whatsoever, but the two don’t seem to mind, nodding in recognition of the name and resuming their places at Drummond’s bedside. 

The four of them stay there for three days, taking minor breaks to eat and sleep until the doctor tells them with a smile on his face that Drummond is certain to make it. 

When they’re told this, all four burst into unreserved tears, which the secretary, regaining his awareness and sense of humour, smirks at. Peel glares at him, not a single ounce of anger in his actions, but Drummond only looks slightly sheepish, changing his face to smile at them all. 

“I’m going to be fine,” he says softly when his mother kisses his forehead. 

He smiles again, and Peel notices that his smile is brightest when he’s looking at Alfred. 

[][][]

“Mr Drummond!”

This is how the Queen greets him when he goes to the palace for the first time since his ‘accident’, as his mother is so fond of calling it. He’s somewhat surprised to see that the monarch actually does look pleased to see him. 

“Good morning, your Majesty,” he replies, bowing as low as he can and trying not to smirk at the way that he hears Alfred scold him for exerting himself under his breath. 

“It’s so good to see you up and about,” she tells him cheerily, a genuine smile on her face which makes Drummond chuckle. 

“Thank you, ma’am. Thank you also for visiting me, your presence was much appreciated,”

(He doesn’t say that he only knows she was there because his mother told him, he himself was unconscious at the time.)

Victoria waves her hands impatiently, moving across the room to clasp his hands in hers. 

“I believe that Alfred was the biggest support,” she tells them with a smile, and turning his head to look at the mentioned man, Drummond sees the blond blushing slightly. 

“I would do the same for any of my friends,” Alfred replies charmingly, although a quick wink which only Drummond manages to spot lets him know that he’s not really just his friend. If he wasn’t so touched by Alfred’s care (he’d been told since he regained full consciousness by his mother than Alfred had barely left his side for nearly four days), he’d tease him for it, but at the moment he thinks that their wounds, both emotional and physical are a little too much for him to poke fun at him for his concern yet. 

Drummond feels warm inside when he thinks about the concern showed by Alfred, and the way it lets him know that all between them is good and forgiven. What he doesn’t think about is the stress he’s put his love through, both before and after the ‘accident’. He can’t imagine how he’d cope if Alfred was ripped from him like that. He just lets himself focus on how much happier Alfred gets every day since he came out of danger. 

They haven’t talked about anything, not yet. They simply haven’t had the time. 

Victoria smiles at them both, and Albert appears, giving Drummond the same well-wishes. 

“I trust you are recovering well, Drummond?” Albert asks kindly once the initial greetings are done, and he nods. 

“Yes, sir. The doctors say that they’re very impressed.” 

“Good,” the prince replies, then pauses. “Drummond, am I right in thinking that with Peel’s resignation that you no longer have a job?” 

Drummond grimaces, but nods. The prince, to the former-secretary’s great surprise, smiles at that. 

“Peel has recommended that I find ‘Toria and myself a Private Secretary, and speaks highly of your work. Would you be interested in filling the post? You’d be welcome to stay here at the palace, and the pay is good.” 

Drummond stares at him. 

Then he glances at Alfred, who is suppressing a grin with his blue eyes glinting happily. 

Drummond lets out a long breath of relief, a lasting stop to the tension that had been plaguing him for months. He can’t quite believe what this could mean. 

“Yes, sir, I would be delighted,” he answers almost breathlessly, too happy himself to really register the grins that fill the faces of the royal couple at his response. “That sounds fantastic, sir,” he adds under his breath, pretending to stagger slightly and feeling smug when Alfred’s hands steady him on his waist and no one bats an eyelid. 

The contact lasts only a few seconds, but it’s enough. 

“You need some fresh air, Drummond,” Alfred tells him, taking his arm as though he’s a naughty schoolboy. The blond’s eyes are sparkling with mirth and letting him know that he knows his loss of balance was faked. 

“Please, take a walk,” Victoria announces, grinning at them both, “I’ll have the servants prepare your room immediately, although I will not have you working until you are fully healed. But that doesn’t mean we can’t get you settled in,” she tells him, and Drummond, even if he wanted to, knows not to argue with her. 

“I believe there is a spare set of chambers near Alfred’s,” Albert says offhandedly. 

“Oh, yes, I do believe there are,” Alfred adds innocently, glaring at Drummond when he has to rapidly turn a laugh into a cough. 

[][][]

They walk slowly to a deserted area of the palace gardens, not speaking a word between them until Alfred helps a tired Drummond onto a bench out of sight of the palace windows and out of ear shot of anyone else out walking. 

“So, Drummond, the Queen’s Private Secretary?” Alfred tells him with a smile, his breath fogging slightly in the chilly air. “Such a successful career for one so young,” 

Drummond rolls his eyes and takes Alfred’s hand, ignoring the way that the other man’s breath catches at his action.

“Indeed. My mother will be so proud.” 

“Will Florence not be?” Alfred asks, a shaky edge to his voice that makes Drummond look at him. The blond’s face is pale, worried, and Drummond has to resist the urge to kiss the frown right off his forehead. 

For once in their relationship, he’s decided, they’re going to be open about everything to each other. No more confusion, no more deception. Just their love for each other. 

“It is no concern of mine anymore,” he replies calmly, trying not to smile at the way that Alfred jumps almost hopefully at the words. 

“You…” Alfred trails off, staring down at their linked hands as though not quite believing what was happening to him. 

“I broke off the engagement,” Drummond confirms, feeling a weight lift off his shoulders as he says it, looking out over the tranquil gardens. Besides him, his love is shaking, and he turns to look at him with tears in his own eyes. “Alfred,” he says quietly, then repeats it more sternly until the blond is looking directly at him, “Do you know what getting shot made me realise?” he asks. 

Alfred shakes his head, and Drummond leans forward and kisses a single tear off his cheek, then pulls back to rest their foreheads together. “It made me realise that life is too short for us to be apart when we love each other as we do. I could never even begin to pretend to love another when the sheer adoration I feel for you is so strong.” 

He takes a deep breath, determined to make it to the end of his speech. “Alfred, I need you and I want to be with you forever, even if it has to be just between the two of us. I love you, and..” he shakes his head, unable to say anymore. 

“I love you,” Alfred replies, kissing him quickly. “I’ll never leave your side. That’s a promise,” 

Drummond laughs at that, more out of relief than anything else. He kisses Alfred again, and again, feeling the smile on his cold lips. 

“And I will never leave yours,” he tells him. 

He squeezes Alfred’s hand and feels anchored to earth when Alfred squeezes back.


End file.
